


Haptic

by humanveil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Mental Instability, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FBI transfer Will Graham’s mind into an electronic tablet before his execution, unwilling to let his profiling abilities die alongside his body. </p><p>Two months later, that same tablet is sent to retrieve information from the BSHFTCI’s most notorious inmate, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haptic

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for the longest time, I'm glad I finally finished the damn thing. 
> 
> A few things before we start; I know little about AI and the type of AI Will is in this is advanced and probably doesn't exist so just go with it. Also, the tag "mental instability" refers to Hannibal,, in my head his incarceration has affected his sanity a bit. Also also, there's mentions of canon typical violence but it's not explicit. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it!

“What is it?”

“An AI.”

“A _what_?”

Jack sighs. “Artificial intelligence. It's imbedded in the tablet.”

“What makes you think it'll work?”

 _Because it has to_ , Jack thinks. The department had spent so much time retracting the right parts of Graham, so many resources had been used to make sure it would work as well as it possibly could.

He'd thought the idea mad, when they'd first explained it. Implanting Will Graham’s mind into a tablet had seemed impossible, not to mention dangerous. There was no way to ensure they'd get only his profiling capabilities; no way to know if the homicidal thought processes would come along too.

But they'd done it. Somehow. Burns had told him they'd isolated the right parts and transferred them into the electronic device Jack now holds in his hand, letting the murderous monster he'd become disappear with Will’s execution.

He just hopes they were right. He's not sure how much trouble Will could cause as an AI, but he'd rather avoid it. Especially when Hannibal Lecter was involved.

“We've spent months perfecting it.”

Before him, Dr. Frederick Chilton sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “If this turns bad, it’s on you,” he says. “Understood? If we send him – _it –_ down there and all they do is discuss their _personal experiences_ , I want no part of it.”

“If it goes bad, we stop,” Jack tells him. “It’s that simple.”

A moment of silence passes between them before Chilton sighs again. Waving a hand at the door, he rests back against his chair. “Fine. Go. I want to know everything.”

With a small nod, Jack leaves.

*****

Hannibal lies on his too small mattress, body turned slightly to watch as Denise enters the room that holds his cell. Behind her stands Jack, looking the way he always does when he visits; determined, mostly, but Hannibal can see the annoyance that lays there, the exhaustion.

The desperation.

He finds it rather amusing.

“Hello, Jack.” His voice is cheerful as he talks, lips turned in a small smile. “Denise.”

Neither respond, but then, Hannibal hadn’t expected them to.

He watches as Jack pulls a tablet from his coat, fingers moving to turn it on before handing it to Denise. It’s a little thing, smaller than the iPad he’d used in his previous life. There’s no markings that indicate a brand, nothing but a sleek silver back that perks Hannibal’s interest.

“Artificial intelligence. You’ll be talking to it,” Jack explains.

Hannibal almost laughs. “Are your men that incompetent that you’ve turned to computers? My, my, Jack. It’s no wonder you take so long.”

Jack doesn’t dignify the comment with a response.  Hannibal doesn’t need one, the slight gesture of Jack’s jaw as it clenches is enough.

“It’ll be taken away in one hour,” Denise says, moving to the mail slot and placing the device there. “Don’t move until we’re gone.”

“We’ll know what you discuss,” Jack speaks up again.

“And if I don’t say anything?”

A huff of a laugh escapes Jack’s mouth. “You will,” he says, voice sure of himself.

And with that, they go; leaving Hannibal alone. He waits a whole ten minutes before standing from the bed and moving to the glass, fingers reaching for the tablet. He doesn’t plan on talking – at least, not about what they want him to – but he is interested, and there’s no good reason to let the opportunity go.

He’s been so very bored, after all.

Returning to his bed, Hannibal presses the circular button that lights the screen.  At first, nothing happens. All there is is a plain white background, completely empty until small letters appear at the top left corner.

_Hello._

Hannibal stares at it for a moment before responding, his voice quiet as he says, “Hello.”

_I’m to ask you about an old patient. Randall Tier._

Hannibal hums, noncommittal. “So ask.”

_I don’t think you’ll answer._

“Clever,” Hannibal says, lips twitching. “Who are you, exactly? They’ve based you on someone, I’m sure.”

 _They didn’t base me on anyone_ , the tablet writes back at him, small, black, block letters filling the screen. _They took my mind from a body._

“What body?”

_Will Graham._

“The murderer?”

_The profiler._

The cursor following the words blinks for a moment, as if pausing mid-sentence. Hannibal grows increasingly interested.

_But yes, the murderer too._

Hannibal smiles. He can’t quite believe his luck. He remembers Will Graham well; remembers reading about him in Freddie Lounds’ articles, sat much like he is now. He’d gone from one of the best criminal profilers the FBI had ever seen, to one of the most horrific murderers.

They had never met in person, but Hannibal had found him interesting. He’d even felt regret when reading the news of his execution.

“Do you remember your previous life?”

The screen stays blank for a moment, almost as if Will were hesitating.

_Vividly._

Before Hannibal can reply, another line of dialogue appears.

_There’s a rectangular button on the right side. Press it._

Hannibal does so, and a black, horizontal line appears at the bottom of the screen. He’s just about to speak when the line begins to move, a near human voice sounding from the device’s speakers.

“They’ll be able to read what’s written,” the voice says. “But it will be harder for them to know what I say.”

The voice, Hannibal thinks, sounds akin to what Will’s had sounded like. He’d heard it on the news, once. A video about a cannibal in Minnesota.

“Jack seems sure he’ll know everything we discuss.”

“Perhaps,” the voice says. “I’m supposed to give them a report of the information you give me. They’ll only know what I tell them.”

Hannibal hums again, lips pursed as he thinks. There’s still a possibility that Jack will know what they say; no way to know for sure that the AI is aware of what it can do, of what Jack can do to it.

Still, it’s the most interesting thing to happen in months.

He stays quiet for a long moment before finally asking, “How much of the person did they put in you, exactly?”

“They tried to eradicate the murderer, but left everything else.”

“Did they succeed?”

“I don’t know,” the voice – Will – replies. “It wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? I can’t do much like this.”

“But I can.”

“I doubt I could talk you into committing a murder you didn’t already want to commit, Dr. Lecter.”

The voice sounds amused, much like a real person’s would when discussing something funny. Staring at the tablet, Hannibal’s brow furrows. He hadn’t thought electronic devices could feel amusement, regardless of how intelligent they were.

“Randall Tier,” Will says, drawing him from thought. “Have they told you what he’s doing?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“You don’t sound particularly interested,” Hannibal says, instead of offering a proper answer. “Is this a burden to you?”

“Perhaps it is,” Will answers. “I never really enjoyed doing this as a human.”

“Does that matter? Can you feel dissatisfaction at the current state of affairs?”

“Something like that.”

“I was unaware robots could feel anything.”

“You’d be surprised about what they aren’t telling you.”

Hannibal laughs; it’s only a quiet puff of air that escapes through his nose, but it’s a laugh all the same. “I don’t plan on telling you anything about Randall Tier, Will.”

A long pause stretches between them, Hannibal’s gaze stuck on the lit screen. Eventually, Will speaks again, his voice somehow quieter than it had been before. “I didn’t think you would.”

*

The second time they speak is a week later.

Jack had been annoyed at the lack of information, but was willing to give it another go. The entire thing was awfully predictable to Hannibal.

It happens just as the first time had, only they’re given double the amount of time. Denise places Will in the mail slot and, once they disappear, Hannibal moves to retrieve him. (He’s not quite sure when Will went from an _it_ to a _him_ , but the transition had occurred. Hannibal doesn’t give it much thought).

The screen already reads _Hello, Dr. Lecter_ when he lights it up, and Hannibal smiles, repeating the greeting.

He doesn’t wait for small talk to ensue, choosing instead to jump straight into the question he’d thought about for most of the week.

“Did you get a say in this?”

The dash on the screen flicks for a moment, and then the words start to appear. _In talking to you, or in being transferred to an AI?_

If Will is surprised by the question, there’s no way for Hannibal to tell. “Either,” he says. “Both.”

_They approached me about the AI. Made a big show of asking my permission. I told them no and it only seemed to spur them on._

_As for talking to you, no, I didn’t. They powered me up and told me what I was to do._

Hannibal considers the information. He can’t stop himself from asking, “Do you mind?”

Another pause. Hannibal waits patiently, eyes reading each letter quickly once they start to form.

_I would have preferred to have just been killed._

_But you’re not so bad._

_Better than the people they had me talk to during testing. They thought yelling was an appropriate way to talk._

Smiling ever so faintly, he asks, “Can you distinguish between what’s loud and what’s not?”

_Yes._

Hannibal hums, impressed. “Do you have to be in use to hear what’s going on around you?”

_No. I can hear what’s happening as long as my power is on._

“You must know a lot of secrets, then.”

_Nothing I’m going to share._

Hannibal’s lips twitch. “Pity.”

Will doesn’t type anything back at that, but Hannibal imagines the man Will had once been, imagines the face looking back at him, possibly even smiling faintly.

He presses the side button, wanting to hear Will’s voice once more.

The first thing Will says is, “He killed another one, you know.”

Hannibal nods, and then hums in agreement upon remembering Will can’t see him. He hadn’t been allowed the details, but he’d been informed of Randall’s activities.

“How did it happen?”

“Hydraulic exoskeleton, fitted with a cave bear’s skull,” Will tells him. “But you know that.”

He does. It’s how they’d traced the murders back to Tier to begin with. He doesn’t acknowledge Will’s point, chooses instead to ask, “The victim?”

“Picked at random. Or so it seems,” Will says. “Why? Do you think there’s someone he would target?”

“Not particularly,” Hannibal admits. That didn’t seem like Randall’s style.

Their conversation continues similar to how the previous week’s had gone, with Will asking questions that receive answers that only raise more questions. It’s a cycle, one Hannibal can tell Will doesn’t mind participating in.

From just their short amount of time together, Hannibal can tell Will is disinterested in the state of affairs, can read the disdain he holds towards the people that had made him like this. Every time Hannibal mentions Jack, he can hear the slight annoyance to Will’s tone, notices the way Will’s sentences are short, clipped.

It’s an interesting discovery for a number of reasons. Mostly because he hadn’t thought artificial intelligence could display irritation, no matter how advanced. But Will does; the emotion was often clear as day.

It makes Hannibal want to continue their conversations, makes him want to find out as much as he possibly can about Will; about his prior life and his current one.

He’s curious about what could happen.

*

Their third meeting is much the same. Hannibal talks in riddles and grand metaphors that makes it seem as if he’s giving away information, but by the end, Jack is left in the same place he’d started out.

He does manage to gather more information about Will, though the AI seems reluctant to give it up. What he does discover, he likes. It’s only little things; short descriptions of how Will had been before his execution. His profiling work, his relationship with Jack, his dogs.

Will had shut the conversation down when he’d mentioned his first victim, but Hannibal doesn’t mind. He was patient, after all. There was little else to do but wait in his current situation, and he thought perhaps Will was worth waiting for.

*

On their fourth meeting, Will skips their usual formalities. He chooses instead to start off with a blunt, _You’re not giving them what they want._

“Surely you knew I had no intention to.”

 _Yes,_ Will writes back. _But they’ll take me away if you don’t._

Hannibal reads the words over three times before replying, feeling surprisingly fearful of losing Will. He’s grown somewhat fond of the device, of the personality it holds.

“They wouldn’t,” he says, though he’s not sure he believes that.

_They will. That had always been the plan; keep me here long enough for them to catch their killer, and take me away once they’re done. There’s no point if you’re not offering information._

Hannibal sighs, considering it. He doesn’t want Will to be taken away, but it is the inevitable outcome, no matter how he chooses to progress. Now, it’s merely a matter of how long he has Will’s company.

Lying back against his small bed, he presses the button that allows Will to speak and lets the tablet rest atop his chest. Resting his head against his sole pillow, he asks, “What do you wish to know?”

“Everything,” Will replies.

Hannibal’s lips twitch briefly, “You’ll have to be more specific, my dear boy.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue easily, with Hannibal barely giving it a thought. If Will is surprised, there’s no indication. Instead, he asks about Randall’s history, the man behind the murderer, and Hannibal tells him just enough to have Jack ask for more.

Somewhere along the way, Hannibal shuts his eyes, and the familiar prison cell melts to an old room, one he hadn’t seen in years. He pictures the man Will had once been sat across him, gaze flicking across vast drapes and rows and rows of books while he drinks from one of Hannibal’s wine glasses.

It’s nice. Enjoyable.

The small fantasy shatters when Denise comes to collect Will, her distinct knock on the glass pulling him back to reality. As he stands to place the tablet in the mail slot, Hannibal finds he doesn’t want to part with Will, doesn’t want their time together to end.

*

“That’s all you got?” Jack asks, after reading the report of information Will had typed for him.

 _He doesn’t say much_ , Will types back. _Every time he starts to offer more information, our session ends._

There’s a pause, the cursor flashing up at Jack from the screen, before Will continues to type.

_Perhaps you should lengthen our sessions._

Jack reads it, considers it. “You think that would help?”

_It’s probable._

Sighing, Jack rubs his temple briefly. “I’ll see what we can do.”

*

The presence of Denise in his cell the next day surprises Hannibal. He gives his picture – a body portrait that looks suspiciously like Will had, drawn from the small piece of charcoal he’d been granted – one last glance before placing it aside and turning his attention towards his visitor.

A small tremor of excitement travels up his spine when he sees the familiar tablet in her hands, and he forgoes his usual greeting, wanting her to leave as quickly as possible.

He’s barely at his desk when he clicks the side button of Will’s tablet, allowing him to speak. The familiar, semi-robotic voice greets him as if nothing were out of place.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“Will,” Hannibal replies. “What a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t expected to see you again for another three days.”

“I asked Jack to increase our meetings,” Will tells him, and the words bring a soft smile to his face. “He agreed.”

“Because he believes it will make me give up more information?”

“Won’t it?”

Hannibal’s only answer is a hum as he settles in his seat, balancing the tablet on his hands. Like before, he lets his cell melt away to a room of his mind palace, the bland walls shifting to a deep blue, the minimal books fading to the art and statues that had littered his old Baltimore home.

It was easier to pretend Will was a human like this, to pretend the smooth vibration of the tablet was a heartbeat, to think the warmth of the device was radiating from a warm bloodied body.

And _oh_ , how he wants Will to be real; to be tangible. Since their first meeting, Hannibal had done little but think of the other. Speaking with Will as an AI had reignited his curiosity of the man, both the profiler and the murderer, and he’d found himself wondering about him, found himself wishing he’d known the man behind the screen.

Frederick had been of some help, offering old clippings of articles for good behaviour. There had been some manipulation on Hannibal’s part, but it was all for fun; for a good cause. The clippings hadn’t offered much, not really. At most, Hannibal had got a framework of information to work with, something to build on.

And he had been building on it. Each night, as he lay down to sleep, he’d pictured Will; pictured hypothetical conversations with the man that offered more insight, more knowledge. Will’s side of the conversation was, of course, derived from Hannibal’s picture of him, but it gave Hannibal ideas of questions to ask the AI, both obviously and inadvertently.

Which is what he tries to do now. He slips in questions on Will’s world views and his history, his home life; tries to gather as much information as he can to create an image of what made him the way he was, or if anything made him at all.

Will’s answers are similar to his own. There’s nothing definite, everything that’s said is vague and leaves him wanting more, but Hannibal isn’t bothered. Most of it fits his already existing ideas, and that which doesn’t is stored in the back of his mind to ponder over later.

Their time passes quickly, as it always does. Hannibal hardly notices as the hours tick by, and is surprised when Will informs him that they’ve only ten minutes together till Denise comes to retrieve him.

“Did I give you enough?” Hannibal asks in response.

“It will do.”

“So I won’t see you again tomorrow?”

There’s a pause before Will speaks. “I don’t know.” There’s an odd tone to his voice, something Hannibal can’t place. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to spend more time with me, Dr. Lecter.”

“And what makes you think you know better?”

Before Will can reply, Denise enters his cell room. Regretfully, Hannibal clicks off Will’s speaking function and murmurs a quiet goodbye. Before he passes Will off to Denise, he sees the _Goodbye, Dr. Lecter._ written on the screen, and it brings a soft smile to his face, one that remains long after Will is gone.

The next day, Will is brought to his room once more. When Hannibal asks Will why, the response is simple.

_I wanted to see you._

*

They carry on like that for another week. Will visits every day, their conversations usually lasting two hours, sometimes more. There’s hardly any silence when they’re together. Instead, it’s a constant stream of information flowing between the two; sometimes about Randall, sometimes about each other, and sometimes about nothing at all.

During their last session of the week, Hannibal falls asleep with Will there. It’s only for a few minutes – fifteen at most – but it happens. He’d been lying atop his bed, Will placed on his chest as they talked. In Hannibal’s mind, they’d been in his old home, lying side by side. There, the hand that rested atop the metal of Will’s device had been gently brushing back Will’s curls, the ones he imagined would be sinfully soft. There, the warmth of the screen had been coming from Will’s body, the light pressure of the tablet against him the product of Will lying beside him.

It had been a shock to wake up in his cell, completely alone save the device resting with him. He almost hadn’t believed it was there he was, not until he’d read the words _Wake up._ on Will’s screen. It had had been like being hit with a bucket of icy water.

 _You shouldn’t do that, you know_. had followed, and Hannibal had stared down at it, confused.

“Do what?”

_Picture me. The person I was before. It isn’t healthy._

Hannibal had read the words through bleary eyes, had grown somewhat defensive when he’d responded, “And how do you know that’s what I do?”

 _It’s obvious,_ Will had typed back. _It’s like you talk to a vision of me, one only you’re aware of._

_You should stop._

_I don’t want either of us to get hurt._

After reading and rereading the words, he’d eventually replied, “And why would you get hurt?”

Will had taken some time to type his answer, almost as if he were reluctant to offer the information. _Because I care for you, as you care for me._

Before Hannibal had got the chance to reply, their time was brought to an end by Denise. Even as he watched them leave, Hannibal had repeated the words in his head, had visioned Will saying them to him.

Perhaps it isn’t healthy, to imagine Will like that, to picture him alive and beautiful and _human_. To imagine him laughing at Hannibal’s jokes, to imagine sly smiles across the dinner table as they dined on meat they’d caught themselves. To imagine a life together.

Perhaps Hannibal doesn’t care.

*

The day after Hannibal falls asleep, Will doesn’t visit.

Instead all he gets is routine visits from Denise. She comes in to drop off his meals, and doesn’t answer when Hannibal inquires about Will. It leaves him suspicious, angry, and just a bit worried.

He doesn’t see Will the day after, either.  Instead, he sees Jack.

Hannibal knows right away that something has happened. He can read it on the other man, can see the satisfaction he wears like a tailored suit, can feel it radiate off him in waves. 

It leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth, but he still smiles when he greets him.

Jack doesn’t respond with a greeting of his own, chooses instead to say, “We caught him.”

Hannibal understands what it means immediately. The words barely leave Jack’s mouth before his stomach turns to ice, before his throat feels blocked in a way it hasn’t in years.

There are so many things he should say, things he wants to say. Instead he settles on a quiet _congratulations_ and hopes the other man will leave.

No such luck. Jacks takes time to tell him how they’d done it, how Hannibal had helped them do it. Hannibal hardly listens, not until Jack mentions Will.

“It's job was completed successfully. You won’t see it anymore,” Jack says, and the lump in Hannibal’s throat grows bigger.

“What will become of him?” he asks, as casually as he can manage.

“Dr. Chilton has asked to use Will for some interviews,” Jack offers. “He’ll stay here until further notice.”

Hannibal accepts the information with a nod, and says nothing else until Jack has left. Only then does he take a seat on his bed. Only then does he let the name _Will_ fall from his lips as if he’d suffered a great loss.

*

Even with Will gone, Hannibal pictures him in old rooms of his mind palace. He pictures them talking, he pictures them touching, pictures them living their old lives together. He has an image in his head of what Will would have looked like on a hunt, of how beautiful he would have looked splattered in blood, burning with the emotion of a murderous afterglow.

For a few days, it’s enough. But then he starts to miss Will, starts to miss the conversations.

Within a week of their meetings being cut, Hannibal talks a guard into suicide. It’s for fun, mostly; something that’ll make him stop thinking about Will, something that’ll make him feel better.

He gets punished for it. He watches, strapped in his jacket, breathing heavy from behind his mask, as Frederick orders for his room to be emptied of any privileges.

It doesn’t bother him. He had survived with less, has experienced much worse.

Besides, he spent most days lost inside his memories, thinking about a man he’d never even known.

*

By the end of week two, he’s planning an escape.

It’s something he’d thought about for a while. It shouldn’t be too hard. He knows the building better than Frederick thinks, knows the orderlies. It wouldn’t be too hard to kill them quickly before making a run for it.

Before it had merely been a fantasy, a possibility in case his incarceration became unbearably boring. But now he wants it. Wants Will.

It doesn’t take much to for him to put a plan in action.

*

It doesn’t go as smoothly as he’d anticipated, but it could have been worse.

Getting out of his cell is easy enough, but he doesn’t make it to Frederick’s office without a few wounds of his own. They aren’t horribly bad, but they make it more difficult to move.

Even still, a trail of blood and dead bodies follows him. The guards drop like flies, defenceless against his skilled movements.

He leaves Frederick hanging from his bowels in his office, crimson paining the walls like a wicked picture. It’s a beautiful sight, but not one he stays to cherish. Rather, once his fingers wrap around the familiar device that holds Will, he runs, using every skill he knows not to get caught

*

He uses old contacts to get a safe place; somewhere he can stay to patch himself up and solidify other plans.

As soon as he can, he powers Will up. He clicks the button that allows speech and rests the tablet on the bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror while he tries to stop the blood sweeping from his torso at a steady rate.

“Hello?”

“Will.”

Recognition floods Will’s voice instantly, and he sounds pleased to hear Hannibal when he asks, “What did you do? They said I wouldn’t see you again.”

“We don’t have to worry about them, my dear boy,” Hannibal says, throwing red stained tissue into a bin. “They’ve no control of you now.”

“An escape,” Will says, voice holding traces of amusement. As much as his could. “Of course.”

“I wanted to see you,” Hannibal says, repeating the words Will had typed at him. “I missed you.”

Will pauses briefly before answering, “I missed you, too.” His tone sounds somewhat surprised at the revelation, as if he doesn’t know what to do with the information, as if he’d never felt like that before.

Hannibal smiles. “No need to worry now. I’ll sort everything. We’ll be okay.”

*

They spend weeks jumping from location to location before settling in Argentina.

At the beginning, it’s okay.

And then, it’s not.

During every conversation, Hannibal pictures the man behind the screen. Pictures Will Graham as human, rather than the tiny thing he holds in his hand. And Will scolds him each times, asks him not to, to _please don’t do it. please. you’ll ruin it._

Even if he wanted to, Hannibal finds himself incapable of stopping. In his head, he can touch Will, can be touched by Will. In his memories, there’s so much for them to see, so many things he can show Will.

He gets addicted to the ghost of Will’s touch. To the illusion of intimacy.

It’s what breaks him in the end.

They should have known. Perhaps they did.

Now, Hannibal sits in their new home, body pressed to a wall as he rocks back and forth softly. He holds Will’s tablet in his hands, hugs it tight against his chest as he talks. The words are murmured, rushed; barely comprehensible to anyone other than Hannibal.

 _Stop_. Will’s screen reads, but Hannibal doesn’t see it. His eyes are shut tightly as he pictures the Will in his head, pictures the men the two of them had once been. Pictures them together.

_Please._

Hannibal continues as he is, murmuring sweet nothings and words of reassurance that fall to imaginary ears.

_Focus on me._

_Hannibal._

_I’m enough._

_Please._

Still, Hannibal doesn’t read the words. Instead, he interprets every message’s vibration as a heartbeat of the Will in his mind, imagines it pressed against his own. Steady. Human.

 _Hannibal_.

“We’ll be okay,” Hannibal whispers, so far gone now it wouldn’t matter if Will’s device weren’t with him. “They won’t find us here. We’ll be okay.”

_Don’t do this. I told you not to do this._

_Hannibal._

“We’ll be okay.” Hannibal whispers the words like a mantra, over and over and over until his throat is raw, until his voice is gone. Until he starts to believe it. _“We’ll be okay.”_

**Author's Note:**

> a fun fact: this fic had a second ending, where Will's tablet held a tracking device that they used to find Hannibal. in that ending Hannibal would have been shot on site and Will would have been powered down. idk why, but i went with the above instead. 
> 
> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/irnstrk) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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